As everyone knows, April 25 is a big date on the Venetian calendar: Not only is it the Feast of San Marco, but also Liberation Day, commemorating the end of World War II.
Seeing that San Marco gets precedence, having been around for some years before World War II, I like to focus on that part of the big day. And arguably the most important element is the long-stemmed red rose known as a “bocciolo” in Italian, and “bocolo” (BOH-ko-lo) in Venetian.
It’s simple: Any and every Venetian man gives a bocolo to the dearest ladies in his life, from wife to mother to sister to whoever else really matters to him. Or they just stick to mother and wife.
We went out early in our little boat to row around the city for a while, and the first step — literally, as we have to cross a bridge to get to the boat — was to buy a rose from the young man prowling on the bridge with a fistful of roses. Lino planned to give me a much more glamorous bocolo a little later, but it was unthinkable to appear in Venice in a roseless boat.
So until we finally reached the florist nearest to our hovel, we rowed around the city on a sampierota proudly bearing its very own bocolo, totally in tune with the day.
P.S.: Any reader who wants to chance his or her arm in plotting our route based on the photos is very welcome to let me know where we went. It’s just a game — if I’d wanted to make it really difficult, I’d have showed mainly reflections and walls.
You are looking at one of the main reasons why starting early is such a good idea — mirror-like water. It has become more common over the past year with the economic collapse of Venice (fewer boats of many types), but don’t let that mitigate your appreciation for seeing the canals as they all were when Lino was a boy.The roses are almost always inserted into a plastic sleeve. One reason might be to keep the petals in place until you’ve paid your money and are walking away. The cheap roses, such as this one, seem to be cut sometime between Epiphany and Easter (made up) — I’ll never forget the shower of petals that fell from the bloom-downward rose I bought at the last minute from a street vendor to put on our boat a few years ago. Precious little was left in the sleeve by the time I got aboard. This rose, though, seems to be of hardier (or more recent) stock.The meeting of the Venetian symbols. I just learned that you could call this an example of syzygy, but that would be pretentious even if accurate. It exists in Italian, though (sizigia), so I’m going with it.Not the first image ever made that shows the bacino of San Marco as it is without traffic, but in the pre-2020 era you’d have had to be out at 2:00 AM to see no waves. Here it’s 9:00 AM on a sunny Sunday morning, and there ought to be phalanxes of taxis and tourist launches. I want you to enjoy this as long as you can, even though we know it represents a world of hurt.The entrance to the Grand Canal, with the slightest wavy trace of the passage of one (1) motorized vehicle, going slowly — specifically, the very small motorboat heading upstream in front of the red dock. Seems only fair that I acknowledge that there is still some sort of traffic. I know things have to change, but I am going to miss this.Speaking of traffic, this is a scene that I have savored — small boats being rowed on glass-like water, usually on weekend mornings — more than I can say.A typical sandolo — a private boat, I notice, which is nice — set up to be rowed alla valesana (notice the momentarily unused forcola on the port side). The square of wood attached to the stern, however, reveals that he, or someone, set up the boat to use an outboard motor sometime.Another private boat — as I’ve discovered in the trafficless Canal, plenty of them still exist — in this case a mascareta rowed by two doughty ladies.
A pause to run to the fancy florist for the fancy bocolo.Plenty of people have had the same idea, and as we left the line was even longer. There used to be more florists, as I recall….Not that these aren’t worth waiting for.Waiting for his friend inside the shop. Better get home soon, the wife is waiting…Off you go, gents. Well done. Note to apparently undecided man on the right: A bocolo-colored jacket is not going to save you. The florist is right there — make that decision now!Technically there’s nothing wrong, I guess, with a lady buying her own bocolo. But it seems somehow slightly askew. It’s like any present you buy for yourself: Not the same as someone giving it to you.Mission accomplished, and he’s walking fast. No telling how far he’s got to go (see: lack of florists in town).The two musketeers have paused at the end of the street for some light refreshment. The pastry shop unseen at the right dispenses all sorts of wonderful things, but Sunday was the last day in months in which we were required to stay outside to consume them. We had to drink on the street, and not even stand — we were supposed to move along and drink while walking. All this was to avoid cramming people together, especially because, as you see, eating and drinking pretty much depends on not covering your mouth. Danger is still lurking everywhere. I will go to my grave wondering what has happened to the second bocolo.Like all the other bars/cafes, this one blocked the doorway with a table, which was useful also for the placement of items being bought, or in this case also the customer’s (Lino’s) detritus. The sign on the door says “Orange Zone, Only Takeaway.”Lino boatward-bound with our very glamorous bocolo.Our little bocolo still doesn’t know that we’re about to put a rock-star rose into the boat. Not sure what the horticultural equivalent of “I was here first” is, but I hope they’ll work it out.Not wanting to disrespect Bocolo 1, still standing so firmly in its bracket, I laid the stately Bocolo 2 on the bow. Then I began to worry, and so did Lino, about the wind possibly blowing it around and deranging its perfection. So down it soon went (see below) onto the cruddy floorboards next to the cake in the pink box.The cruddy compartment was covered by the small wooden door for most of the return trip, but here you can see how we arranged the most important bits: the cake, the rose, the folded boat cover, also the sponge…. I bet Bocolo 1 was snickering because Bocolo 2 was lying down there in the hold where nobody could see it.The home stretch. The area looks only slightly better for having the compartment covered. Now that you know that Bocolo 2 is prone you can slightly make out its plastic sleeve. And finally we’re back to home itself. The boat is moored and ready to be covered and put away for a day or two. Our little bocolo has really gone the distance, not one petal out of place. Bocolo 2 still prostrate.Walking past us is a man with a mission: It looks like he’s carrying three bocolos (bocoli?). It’s going to be a fun day for him and the family. Hope all the relatives have had their shots.On the left, the boat’s bocolo, and on the right, the 3-foot monster from the fancy florist. Tradition maintains that the greater your love, the longer the stem, so I’m happy with the monster even though my secret favorite is the runt of the litter. I suppose they’ve reached an agreement, I didn’t hear any scuffling during the night.Outside on the fondamenta, the monument to the Partigiane (female partisans of World War II) is more than usually floral this year. On the left is the traditional laurel wreath offered by the city, and on the right the traditional mass of roses from the national Partisans Association. The other flowers have obviously come from individual hands and hearts.Gerbera daisies also welcome. Anything red will do. They earned every blossom countless times over.April 25. Bocolo. Bring it.
